


a song of the fish in the sea

by softestpunk



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, honestly this is very soft, just two middle-aged templars cuddling a bunch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23174230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: With what feels like the greatest effort of my life, I turn my head and open my eyes to see Shay Cormac staring back at me, the comforting, familiar black-coffee brown of his soulful eyes sure confirmation that I am not, in fact, dead.The pain hits me a moment later, an ache that sinks into my bones and makes my muscles seem filled with sand, an ache so all-consuming that it causes me to moan in pain even in front of Shay, who is sitting on the floor beside my bed.
Relationships: Shay Cormac/Haytham Kenway
Comments: 19
Kudos: 127





	a song of the fish in the sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quills_at_dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quills_at_dawn/gifts).



> "I'll just write a short fic where Shay rescues Haytham after his fight with Connor," I said.
> 
> Almost 12k later, here we are.

_“Up jumps the eel with his slippery tail, climbs up aloft and reefs the topsail…”_

“Father?” I ask, my voice wrecked, mind grasping at consciousness as if through a barrel of molasses.

“Not quite.”

_Shay._

Oh, Shay.

But… but I was… the last thing I remember.

With what feels like the greatest effort of my life, I turn my head and open my eyes to see Shay Cormac staring back at me, the comforting, familiar black-coffee brown of his soulful eyes sure confirmation that I am not, in fact, dead.

The pain hits me a moment later, an ache that sinks into my bones and makes my muscles seem filled with sand, an ache so all-consuming that it causes me to moan in pain even in front of Shay, who is sitting on the floor beside my bed.

… no, beside _his_ bed. His bunk on the _Morrigan_.

“How…”

“Shh,” Shay murmurs. “You’ve been ill. Save your strength. I’ll see about a cup of tea.”

I consider the possibility of asking him for a glass of whiskey instead, but I suspect my body would not appreciate the overall effect, even if the analgesic properties would be welcome right now.

Shay stands with the grace of a man half his age, tucks another blanket over me, and goes to the door of his cabin to call, presumably, for his steward.

He is too far away to listen to, and my eyes are too heavy to watch, though I do not wish to sleep again so soon. Not when I have just woken up to this most unusual of circumstances.

The last thing I remember is telling Connor I intended to die on my feet.

I may yet do so, but I have obviously not fulfilled my promise so soon.

A thousand questions enter my mind as I watch Shay return to my side, but I cannot possibly give voice to them all in my weakened state. No, I must choose, I must be strategic.

“Why?” I ask. _How?_ is not useful information, and _where are we_ requires rather too many words for my raw throat and clumsy tongue.

Shay has been absent for years, searching for the Precursor box, more concerned with affairs in Europe than the colonies. He has written, from time to time, but I have not seen him in some five years, and I thought…

Well, I thought he was quite done with me.

“The world isn’t ready to go on without Haytham Kenway,” he says. The line is rehearsed. He had anticipated the question and formulated an answer to hide his true motives.

But then what could his true motives be that he feels the need to _hide_ them?

The steward comes back with fresh tea, and Shay helps me sit as upright as I am able—less than I would like, but more than he expects of me—before accepting a cup with shaky hands.

Shay wraps his much steadier ones around mine, and I notice them soft and cared for—he has, finally, taken to wearing gloves.

Coming from another man, the help might be distasteful to me, but Shay…

Shay has always been different.

Perhaps I have not given him credit for quite _how_ different he is.

“You’ll feel better when you’ve gotten some of this down ye,” he promises me, bracing my currently-feeble body against his own.

The first few mouthfuls soothe my throat, and I realise that there is a frankly ruinous quantity of honey in my cup.

But then Shay can afford it now, can’t he? He’s done well for himself.

Secretly, I have always been proud of him.

“There we go,” Shay says, cheerful as ever. The dark circles under his eyes betray him—he has lost sleep, he has _worried_ over me.

“Connor?” I finally think to ask.

“Who, sir?”

“He was… he…”

“Ah, the Assassin,” Shay says. “Got away.”

_Was allowed to get away_ , I hear. Connor was good, but Shay is _better_. Still better, after all this time, I’d wager. He did not escape by skill.

How much does Shay know? If he saw there was an Assassin present, how much did he hear?

I will have to come clean one way or another, but for now I am lulled by the rocking of the ship, the warm tea in my belly, and the soothing rhythm of Shay’s heartbeat thudding slowly under my head.

_And it’s windy weather, boys, stormy weather…_

***

I am alone when I next wake, sunlight forcing me to squint in the otherwise dark cabin. I still ache in every possible place I can imagine aching, but I have clearly lain in bed long enough.

Gritting my teeth, I force myself to stand and, with some effort, make my way to the door of the cabin before realising I am barely half-dressed, in shirt and breeches—a clean shirt, and not one of my own. Shay’s, then.

The slightly narrow fit of the breeches suggests these, too, are Shay’s.

I suppose my own were quite bloodied and probably beyond saving.

It is only now that I take stock of my body—bandaged and clean, under the clothes. I lift one edge of the shirt to be sure, finding neatly-wrapped white bandages wrapped around my middle, covering a nasty gash from one of Connor’s blades.

Shay has taken _very_ good care of me.

… no, not _Shay_. Shay’s surgeon, no doubt, and likely his steward as well. He has no reason to personally…

Well, no _current_ reason, no reason that would still hold after all this time. Surely?

The door opens, and I am assaulted by brighter sunlight still, temporarily blinded and then caught quite off-guard, staring at Shay’s haloed silhouette in the doorway.

“Sir?” Shay asks, temporarily as taken aback as I am, and then he rushes to me as I feel the remainder of the strength in my legs give out.

_Damn_. I am cursed to be weak in front of him.

“I really think,” I begin as he moves me to the bed, desperate to cover how badly I’m struggling with even this small distance. “That after all these years, you ought to call me Haytham.”

“Aye, sir, if you like,” Shay says, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He barely seems to have aged a day, and here I am, old, grey, slow, and sore, relying on his strength where my own has failed.

I have held myself in contempt on and off over the years for various reasons, but never so deeply and venomously as I do now.

“You’re making fun of me,” I say, too weak to let the blow to my ego go unnoticed.

“Never, sir,” Shay says, his hold on me tightening just a touch before he eases me down, pushing me back into the bunk and tucking blankets around me.

For a moment I half-expect him to join me, the ghost of a future that never happened appearing and then disappearing in my mind.

“You need to rest,” Shay says, brushing loose hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear with more tenderness than I think I have ever known.

But that is _Shay_. Shay is the most beautiful soul I have ever had the privilege of meeting.

“I know you don’t want to,” he says. “But you’ll just have to anyway. Don’t make me order you.”

Ah, of course. We have always agreed that, for the sake of harmony, Shay’s authority is absolute on his ship, and mine amounts to that of an honoured guest—which is to say, I can ask for a cup of tea and it will be provided.

He would order me if he had to, but he does not want to. No, he wants my voluntary cooperation, and while the thought of further bed rest makes me itch, I will give him what he wants.

It is the _least_ I can do.

“Where are we headed?” I think to ask as sleep begins to cloud my mind.

Shay smiles a small, enigmatic smile. “Somewhere you can rest,” he says. “Somewhere you’ve never been.”

There are a great many places I’ve never been, so this does not narrow it down overly much.

I want to say as much, but the world fades to black before I am able.

***

_"Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes..."_

I can hardly believe I mistook Shay's melodic accent for my father's, though they do both share a similar low, soothing cadence when they sing quietly.

“My father used to sing me that one,” I say as consciousnesses comes back to me.

Shay laughs. “So did mine. Must’ve been the closest thing to a lullaby he knew.”

“Mm,” I agree. “And now you sing it to me.”

“Aye, well, if you’re set on _acting_ like a sick child...”

I snort, though I know I shouldn’t. I should insist on discipline and respect from my subordinates.

But I am old, and I am tired, and I have never thought of Shay as anything other than my better.

“If I were a sick child I would have a nursemaid rather than a sea captain by my bedside, I think.”

Shay laughs again. “Well, if you’d rather I wore a dress, we’ve prob’ly got one stowed away somewhere.”

“The thought has merit, but I wouldn’t like to embarrass you in front of your crew.”

More laughter. “Wouldn’t be the worst they’ve seen me in over the years, sir.”

Silence falls between us, my awkwardness and Shay’s deference getting in the way of the flow of conversation.

“I have a son,” I say. I have wanted to tell Shay, specifically, about this since the moment I learned of Connor’s existence.

Shay, I think, will understand. Understand _all_.

Besides, he was once one of Achilles’ Assassins. He may have some insight that I do not.

“The Assassin who ran away?” Shay asks, but it is a request for _confirmation_ , not _information_. Shay has learned a thing or two about sources and whispers and spies over the years—and he likely has more than me, since he can convince them by charm rather than coin.

Stupid to think he wouldn’t already know most of what I want to tell him.

“Yes,” I shift uncomfortably, looking for a position where my bones won’t ache so. I know it is futile—the ache of a fever cannot be eased by simply wriggling around until things stop hurting.

Shay, observant as ever, fetches me yet another blanket. He is determined, I think, to crush me under them.

“Handsome lad,” Shay says. “But then he would be.”

I would like to blush at the implied compliment, but I am already too flushed for flattery to make a difference to my complexion.

“He tried to kill me,” I point out.

“Nearly succeeded,” Shay agrees. “Must be well-trained to best you, sir.”

He _is_ well-trained, and he is faster and stronger than I am—than I ever was, I think. But Shay is allowing me my vanity, and I am grateful.

“I couldn’t have killed my own son,” I say, which is true, but does not mean I couldn’t have incapacitated him and taken him away to cool off.

He has inherited his temper from both myself and his mother, making him doubly stubborn and twice as quick to snap.

“Well, we’ll sort him out later,” Shay says. “Go back to sleep, and I’ll help you out onto the deck tomorrow.”

The prize Shay is offering is so desirable to me that my eyes fall closed without a moment’s hesitation.

A warm, broad hand strokes my hair back.

Just checking my temperature, I tell myself. Nothing more. The tenderness I so badly want to imagine is _gentleness_ , care of the ill and infirm, as natural to Shay as swimming is to a fish.

I had my chance and lost it, and I will not get another one.

***

Every step Shay helps me take is an agony, but the agony is worthwhile to feel the sun on my face, smell the salt air, and escape the confines of Shay’s admittedly cozy, comfortable cabin for a few minutes.

I feel rather less like I’m dying out here.

Shay helps me into a chair that has most certainly been set up especially for me, next to one of the quarter-deck railings, plush with blankets and pillows.

I begin to wonder if Shay’s supplies of blankets are as inexhaustible as they seem as he helps me into it, only to realise I am nestled in a bundle of precious silks. From the cargo hold, then.

There is a small fortune wrapped around my shoulders, and I cannot help but wonder what Shay’s crew thinks of this special treatment. Some of them know me, undoubtedly—Shay’s people are loyal, they stay with him for years and years—but some will be new, and wondering who this frail stranger really is.

“I know you won’t tell me if you need to go back inside,” Shay says. “So I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

A tea tray appears at Shay’s elbow, produced by his ever-helpful steward—a man who has only one good eye and no hair, but makes up for it with an enormously bushy beard.

He is so much the sort of person Shay would choose for the position that I cannot help but like him instantly, appearances aside.

They do tend to _look_ like pirates, this crew, though I suspect the new war effort has seen a return to privateering for the _Morrigan_.

“Where are we headed?” I ask—surely we should be prowling the waters off the coast, watching for rebel ships or French reinforcements.

Shay waves at what looks like a floating mountain in the distance. “Bought a little estate out this way,” he says. “Thought you might want to see it. Thought I might go into trade.”

I raise an eyebrow. “There’s a war on,” I point out.

“Aye, well,” Shay shrugs. “Might sit it out this go-round. There’ll be another.”

He says this with a surprising bitterness. But then, Shay never did have a taste for war—for winning, certainly, for naval strategy and firepower and being the _best_ , the most powerful and fearsome on the water—but not for the death, not for the petty little struggles over a scrap of land here or there.

I must admit, if only to myself, that I lost my own taste for it a long time ago. Before I met him.

I sip my tea—once again heavily honeyed—and focus on the island Shay indicated in the distance. Something about it is familiar in the way dreams are familiar—it isn’t _real_ , but something in the back of my mind registers it as more of a memory than a new discovery.

Curious. Perhaps I’ve seen a painting, or a map.

“But where _are_ we?” I ask.

“If I tell you the coordinates, you’ll only look at me like I’ve gone mad,” Shay says.

Yes, well, among my many weaknesses, navigation is one I never even sought to correct.

“We’re in the Caribbean,” Shay says.

My blood runs cold. The Caribbean has been an Assassin stronghold since—

Oh.

Oh, I never thought…

Never thought to reassess after Shay’s dealings with the Brotherhood.

Perhaps, with Adéwalé gone, Assassin influence has waned in these parts. Shay would know better than I.

I have always wanted to see the Caribbean, a place so vibrant in my father’s stories and so absent from my own experience. Shay knows this, I think. Before…

_Before_ , we had many a late-night talk about our pasts, and our families, and our hopes and dreams.

I have missed those talks like a missing limb. I have missed _Shay_ like a missing limb, and I am only now realising how much pain I was in now that it is gone.

A few scrapes, a cracked rib or two, and a lingering fever is a small price to pay to have him back.

“Don’t get too excited,” Shay says wryly. “Your heart might not take the strain.”

_My heart is quite broken already_ , I think, but I manage the half-smile Shay expects all the same.

Shay’s hand lands on my shoulder, and I find myself covering it with my own without consciously intending to.

We each sip our tea, and look out to the island on the horizon.

Around us, the crew sing another sea shanty I half-remember from my childhood, and I wonder if Shay has put them up to it.

At some point, sleep takes me again.

***

The next time I wake, I am being carried.

I want to object, but as I open my mouth to speak a cough makes my chest contract, and the act of coughing is so painful it makes my eyes water.

Perhaps I ought to have known better than to think my recovery would be so smooth and linear.

Shay appears by my side, his broad smile barely disguising the worried lines of his face, the renewed dark circles under his eyes.

“Welcome to Great Inagua,” he says, smile wavering uncertainly. “Don’t die on me before you get to see it properly, all right?”

Great Inagua.

My father’s old hideout. An Assassin stronghold.

Or _former_ Assassin stronghold, I should say. I know Shay, this place will be a fortress already, guarded by loyal men with defences set up to take advantage of the harbour ahead and the mountain behind.

I do not want to die before I see it, but I cannot keep my eyes open any longer.

The rocking of the stretcher lulls me back to sleep, and I am not sure whether or not I imagine Shay’s fingers in my hair.

***

I watch Shay cutting a quill from the bed, focused on his task over a large desk, his knifework elegant and confident, the strokes of a man who has never cut himself doing this and never will.

This, I remember, was once my father’s house. Before he was my father.

I am bundled up in _his_ bed, the one he slept in whenever he wasn’t sailing—he and more often than not, a companion. Or two.

It wasn’t until I was older that I understood what he meant by that, but I had always liked the idea of sharing my bed as a child. The mattress had seemed too vast, the sheets too voluminous, the blanket ideally suited to being wrapped around two pairs of shoulders.

The irony that I have very rarely shared a bed is not lost on me.

In the light of the lantern he’s working by, Shay is burnished to bronze and stunningly beautiful, every dramatic angle of his face thrown into sharp relief. It is all I can do not to gape in awe as he turns, a smile warming his handsome features as he sees me.

“You must feel miserable,” he says without preamble, rising from the desk and coming to sit beside me on the bed.

The distance is so shockingly intimate that I forget to answer his question.

“Do you want a wash?” he asks, reaching out to me with such easy affection. “It’s all right. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Does he mean nothing he hasn’t seen in general, or nothing he hasn’t seen of me? I remember thinking _someone_ had washed me, but I had dismissed the idea that it might have been Shay.

Perhaps I was wrong.

I would so desperately like to be clean. The shirt I’m wearing is plastered to my chest, clammy sweat soaked into every piece of clothing touching my skin, and even _I_ am aware of the smell.

I don’t want Shay to see me like this—ill, unwashed, too weak to do anything about it myself—but I see little other choice.

I nodded, unable to bring myself to say the words.

Shay’s smile is reassuring, and I try my best to sit up before I am stopped with a pointed look.

Few men would dare to order me and fewer still would succeed. Shay was practically unique in being able to order me to do something without a word, and being obeyed without objection.

Instead of allowing me to sit, he brings a basin and cloth over to the bed, removes my breeches and then braces me against his chest, pushing blankets out of the way.

The fertile soil of my imagination might have been rich with ideas about how Shay bathing me might go, but I am either relieved or disappointed to discover that it is the least arousing event of my life—including beatings, ice-cold midnight swims, and algebra lessons.

At least those things were unpleasant, they elicited _some_ response in me.

Shay’s hands are gentle and his method is thorough, but all the affection he has showered me with since I first woke in his cabin is gone, replaced by the distance of efficiency.

When he is finished, I am clean, and he has found a nightshirt for me and even a banyan—in scarlet and brassy gold. Not quite my colour, but I will not complain of either the warmth or the dignity of the garment.

My vanity is currently the least of my concerns.

Shay stacks pillows for me so I might sit up, provides me with another cup of tea, a candle, and a book, and makes me promise not to burn the house down by falling asleep with the candle burning before he leaves me entirely—back to his ship, perhaps, or another room of the house.

… or the tavern by the beach, lively with music that can be heard even from here and full of his crew and that of visiting merchants, women squealing and giggling as they enjoy the merry chase of the sailors.

Women who would be eager for Shay’s company, who would welcome him with open arms, and who would be soft and beautiful and easy to be with. The charming sea captain—and now plantation owner—with his kind smile and lilting accent and generous purse would be exceptionally popular.

Yes, this is where Shay went, I decide, the bitter taste of the thought sticking in the back of my throat long after my tea is gone.

I do not have the strength to call for another cup and I am not certain there is anyone to answer me in any case, so I blow out my candle and curl up under the blankets, cursing that this one moment when I would like to escape into sleep would also be the one moment when I am not tired.

***

“Who told you you were allowed out of bed?” Shay asked, catching me standing by the window, looking down at the port.

Despite his clearly teasing tone, I bristle. “I am _not_ a child and I am sick and tired of spending all my waking hours abed,” I growl, and a wave of dizziness immediately forces me to grip the windowsill to save myself from falling back.

Shay is at my side in an instant—or rather, at my back. He does not touch me, but his presence is reassuring. He will not let me fall, he will spare me that indignity.

As, I realise, he has spared me so many others. I am sure now that he bathed me and dressed my wounds himself, keeping the full extent of my condition between the two of us. I expect he has received _some_ medical advice, but then he knows how to handle illness and injury as well as anyone.

“Good morning to you, too,” Shay says, as though I never snapped at him. “Thought you might want to come outside for breakfast.”

I cannot help the sharp intake of breath at this suggestion. Have I fallen so far that the thought of _breakfast outdoors_ is such an exciting prospect that I can’t contain myself at having it offered to me?

Shay chuckles, but his laughter is not cruel.

“Hang onto that window another moment,” he says, the heat of his body disappearing from my back, instantly missed.

He returns a heartbeat or three later and drapes a blanket over my shoulders, another one folded over his left arm. After a brief shuffle, he offers me the right.

“Come on,” he cajoles, giving me another moment to straighten myself and brace for the short walk out to the terrace—there are fine glass French doors that lead from this bedroom out onto it, and the thing itself looks out over the whole sheltered cove.

I smile wryly at the thought of my father breakfasting here, king of his domain.

I suppose it is Shay’s domain now. A fitting line of succession—my father would have been proud to call him a son.

Being here makes me wonder if he would feel the same about me.

When we reach the breakfast table, I am surprised to find a third man I do not recognise sitting at it and papers spread over it.

“This is Mr. McBride,” Shay introduces me. “He helped me get the papers in order to acquire this place. Took a lot of work on his part.”

“And it’s all in order!” Mr. McBride enthuses, ruddy-faced and decidedly middle-aged. He is younger than me, I think, but I am in much better shape, even injured, sick, and tired.

“So it is,” Shay agrees, pulling a chair out for me and tucking me into it, spreading the spare blanket across my lap. He pours all three of us tea, effortlessly taking on his role as host.

None of this explains anything that I would like to understand.

Even more inexplicably, Shay passes me a shilling along with a slice of toast piled high with scrambled eggs.

“Mr. McBride agreed to join us so we could settle the matter of the sale of this property,” Shay explains.

_Sale_? He’s selling it? So soon after acquiring it, so soon after bringing me here and…

I am not a man moved easily to tears, but I feel the urge to sob catch in the back of my throat.

Shay doesn’t understand what this place means to me, he can’t, and I cannot explain in front of his… lawyer? Surely a lawyer if he’s involved with the sale.

“The asking price is a shilling,” Shay continues.

I look down at the shilling beside my plate.

Oh. _Oh_.

I look up and meet Shay’s eyes, certain my own really are shining with tears now.

This is too much. Too enormous a gift, and I have done nothing to deserve it from him.

“Do you happen to have a shilling, Haytham?” Shay asks softly.

The coin is still warm from Shay’s pocket when I pick it up, radiating the heat of his body.

This isn’t even _my_ shilling. He gave it to me.

Shay grins at me, holding his hand out for it. “You can have it back when you’ve signed the papers,” he says, as though this is such a vast sum that I would care either way.

My hand shakes as I sign my name on seemingly interminable pieces of paper, each one dense with information I barely glance at.

I trust Shay so completely that I might well have signed away my very soul without thinking twice.

But I know I haven’t—I know the papers are just what he says they are, the deeds to what was once my father’s hideout, a place he took by force so long ago.

I wonder, again, if _this_ would make him happy. If he would want his Templar son who can barely identify all the sails on the _Morrigan_ to own such a place.

But I can see that it makes _Shay_ happy, his handsome face glowing as he smiles at me, pleased to have given me this.

I do not deserve his friendship.

“Right, well, that all seems to be in order,” Mr. McBride says, finishing his toast and packing his papers away. “These are your copies,” he adds, passing me a small stack. “And they’ll all be on file with me, of course. I’ll leave you gentlemen in peace.”

Shay stands to show him out, leaving me to my eggs, and the view, and the knowledge that I own all I can see.

***

Many hours later, I am still staring at the papers Shay’s lawyer handed me earlier, struck dumb by how generous a gift this really is.

This property is worth tens of thousands of pounds. More, once the war is over and trade between Europe and the Caribbean can resume unhindered.

What I don’t understand is _why_ he would do something like this for me.

A knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts.

“Enter,” I say distractedly, drawing my banyan closer around my shoulders as an afterthought.

I have begun to forget how limited my energy is and instead have started to think of myself as a gentleman of leisure, lounging around in my nightshirt well into the afternoon.

“Thought it might be about time you ate,” Shay says, bringing in a tray and closing the door behind himself.

My stomach makes a tiny sound of agreement as Shay sets the tray—tea and sandwiches—over my lap.

The warmth of Shay’s body as he sits next to me on the bed is noticeable even through his clothes, and a welcome respite from the general chill still set deep into my bones.

“It’s all as orderly as it’ll ever be,” he says, nodding to the papers.

“I trust you,” I respond, pouring tea for both of us—I have noticed two cups, and enough sandwiches to feed four or five people. Or myself and Shay, who has never refused food within striking distance in his life.

“But I don’t understand why you’d do this for me,” I add, noting that we once again have honey for our tea instead of sugar. Shay’s taste, perhaps, since sugar would undoubtedly be so much easier to come by at the moment.

“I only carried a tray up a flight of stairs,” Shay says, deliberately misunderstanding.

“You know exactly what I mean. This.” I wave at our surroundings. “This place.”

“Seemed the sort of thing you’d like,” Shay says easily, sipping his tea. “Thought you could use a rest. Away from a war you don’t want to back the wrong side in.”

Shay, sometimes, knows me too well. He knows how uncomfortable returning to England would be for me, and he knows I have only the Virginia plantation and the mansion in New York to return to, both places that are currently best described as war-torn.

Out here, there is sunshine and relative peace, and I have no influence aside from, as of this morning, being a very fortunate land owner.

“And I thought you might like to see the house your father used to live in,” Shay adds. “It’s untouched, you know, since he left. Just had it dusted for you and changed the linens.”

“Yes, but _why_?”

Shay owes me nothing and I owe him _everything_ , my very life included, and I do not understand why he would do me such a great kindness.

“Haytham,” Shay says softly. “You must know why.”

When I look down, he is toying with the edge of my banyan like a nervous child.

Oh.

“Oh,” I say aloud. “I hadn’t thought—“

“It’s all right, I’m not… expecting anything. I’m not even asking for it. I won’t ever mention it again, if it’s making you uncomfortable.”

“No, I mean… it’s just… I hadn’t imagined you were ever _serious_ ,” I say.

Five years ago, Shay had kissed me at midnight on Christmas Day, tasting of brandy and smelling of bonfire smoke, just arrived from his own celebrations with his crew.

And I had failed to react. Failed, utterly, to react _at all_ , too stunned to do anything for much, much too long.

He’d walked away before I could think of anything to say to him, and I had regretted that day since.

But I had also come to think, over the years, that it had been a joke, or a farewell, or perhaps an offer of companionship for the night, a kind of gift.

How could he possibly have _meant_ it?

Except that every now and again, when I was lying in the dark, unable to sleep, mind racing, a touch or a look or a comment or a kindness would come back to me, little by little, tiny memories of Shay I had stored in a vault at the bottom of my heart.

And in those very quiet moments, I wondered how I could have _missed_ it.

And now here Shay was, telling me that all those memories did mean exactly what I’d thought they meant.

He was in love with me. He had been in love with me for some time, and it was _real_ love, real and deep and suffused with meaning.

“Hadn’t you?” Shay asks, sad. “I s’pose I’ve only got my own self to blame. Bit of a reputation.”

“No,” I say softly, clutching my tea cup with both hands. “Well, yes, in a way. You could have anyone. Have had just about everyone. I see very little appeal in… in…”

“You?” Shay asks, voice so gentle I could weep at it. “It’s been you since the moment we met.”

The breath catches in my lungs, my chest impossibly tight.

I have felt the same way all this time. That the moment I met Shay, it was all over for me. He would never love me, and I would never be satisfied with anyone else.

But he _does_ love me.

The thought is quite overwhelming.

“I’ve wasted so much time,” I say after a moment, the first thing that occurs to me. We were young men when we met, with so much of our lives ahead of us.

I am _old_ now, my hair entirely grey, my strength beginning to fail me. Even sitting up for as long as I have is wearing on me, I will have to lie down soon.

This is the only future I can offer Shay. A future of early nights and endless cups of tea, slippers and mohair-lined banyans to keep the cold out of my bones.

Shay takes my hand, pulling it into his lap and curling his other hand around it.

“You’re not that much older than me,” Shay says, as though he’s reading my mind. “You’re just feeling sorry for yourself because you’re ill.”

A huff of laughter escapes me. “You assume I don’t feel sorry for myself all the time,” I say. “Perhaps it just shows more when I’m ill.”

“I could make you happy,” Shay says, so soft, the confident sea captain all but gone.

I am so weak that I cannot help resting my head on his shoulder.

He has already given me so much. Can I really take more?

“But can _I_ make _you_ happy, Shay? I’m not the man I used to be.”

“You’re not,” Shay says, steady and honest. He is almost always cheerful and optimistic, but he does not lie to himself and I trust him not to lie to me. “But you’re still all the things I want. And I like the grey hair.”

“Well, I don’t,” I say, and then remember that Shay is greying at his temples as well. “On myself. It’s very charming on you.”

Shay chuckles. “I flatter myself enough, you don’t need to help.”

“That would usually make two of us,” I say, letting my eyes fall closed as I settle against him. “I am impossible to love.”

“Lucky for you I’m good at the impossible,” Shay says. “Finish your afternoon tea.”

“Sleep here tonight,” I counter, feeling bold. “Just… sleep. Here. With me.”

“Haytham,” Shay says softly. I could count on one hand the number of times he’s used my given name, but I would like to lose count. I would like to hear my name in his voice every day of my life. “I’m not asking for anything,” he repeats. “You’re not… obliged to me. You don’t owe me so much as a cuddle.”

“Shay, I am ill, and I am tired, and I am _sore_ , and I would like nothing better than to be cuddled. By you.”

Shay is silent for a moment, but his thoughts are so loud as to be deafening.

“Indulge me,” I nudge. “You wanted to make me happy a moment ago.”

“Yes,” Shay agrees. “Yes, I do. More than anything.”

“Then sleep here tonight,” I insist. I would not order him, not to do something like this, but I will cajole and encourage and use all my powers of persuasion to get what I now desperately want.

I hadn’t realised I could have it, and I feel very lucky to have a second chance.

“All right,” Shay agrees. “I’ll sleep here.”

***

The excitement I feel as Shay climbs into my bed in nothing but his shirt borders on the indecent, but I cling to the feeling as he makes himself comfortable beside me.

There is more than enough room for two—which, in hindsight, comes as no surprise. My father would have had use for the space in his wild younger days.

I am grateful to have it now, even as Shay curls up beside me at such an intimate distance that I catch myself holding a breath, shocked by the sudden wave of tenderness and need I feel for him.

“Are you sure about this?” Shay asks. “Because there’ll be no moving me once I’m asleep.”

I doubt this—I cannot imagine Shay as anything but the lightest of sleepers—but I nod anyway.

“I’ll appreciate the warmth,” I say. “I’m so cold.”

“Why didn’t you _say_ something?” Shay asks, exasperated. He knows why, of course—because it is hard enough for me to _be_ ill, admitting to weakness is harder still.

I am _trying_.

Shay, I think, would agree that I was very trying, which is what makes his willingness to stay here with me such a surprise.

Instead of waiting for a response, he simply shuffles closer and throws an arm over me, letting me soak in the warmth of his body freely.

This, I think, as I slip into sleep, is love.

***

The smell of Shay’s hair is the first thing I’m aware of when I wake, sea salt and harsh lye soap. My first thought is that I want him to smell of something finer, but that it would not do to lose the salt air, the smell of a sea captain, the thing that makes him who he is.

I catch myself playing absently with it, the ribbon he usually ties it back with long lost, the strands hanging free and, to my delight, curling ever so slightly around my fingers.

When my attention returns to Shay’s face, I find his dark eyes peering at me, curious.

“Morning,” he murmurs, hiding a yawn behind his hand.

“Good morning,” I respond, equally quiet, unwilling to disturb the peace between us.

“Your eyes have little flecks of green in them,” Shay says, awe in his voice. I have never noticed myself, but I believe him nevertheless.

“Do they?” I ask, running my fingers through his hair, revelling in this newfound intimacy. I do not deserve it, but I will not allow that to stop me enjoying it.

Shay nods, reaching out and running his thumb over my brow, then back to my ear, burying his fingers deep in my hair. “Aye,” he says.

The way he looks at me is hardly believable, but believe it I must.

“Shay, I… may I kiss you?”

Half a dozen emotions play over his features, but I can see that the answer is _yes_ before he so much as draws breath to speak.

“I’d like that very much,” he manages, restrained in his urge to encourage me. He is so impossibly gentle, and I do not deserve _that_ , either, but I am grateful for it.

I take my time shuffling closer to him, stroking through his hair, brushing it back and out of the way, smoothing it down, offering him gentleness in return.

When we were younger men we might have come together in violent passion, desperate need, but not now. Now I will savour this—I will savour every kiss, every touch, every sigh and every heartbeat with him, because I did not believe this possible and I’m still not entirely convinced he won’t evaporate like a mirage if I take my eyes off him or hold him too tightly.

Shay’s mouth is soft and willing, giving so easily under mine, giving and giving and _giving_ , asking nothing in return even as he curls his fingers into my nightshirt, sweet, happy sounds spilling over my tongue as I lick my way into his mouth.

Every pleased sound Shay makes is a balm for my soul, his happiness doing more to heal me than any amount of rest ever could.

His hands are warm through my nightshirt, palms splayed over me as though he’s handling something precious, mindful of the cuts and bruises still decorating my body.

“Haytham,” he breathes against my lips, eyes closed, pale cheeks flushed. He has never been more beautiful to me than he is in this moment, perfectly content with my affection.

“More?” I ask, teasing, already certain of the answer. Shay would let me kiss him all day, and at the moment I am inclined to oblige.

He nods, wriggling closer so that there is barely a space between our bodies, strong fingers stealing into my hair, taking the initiative this time.

Shay has more experience than I ever will, and it shows in his clever tongue, his sense of timing, the way he can draw a gasp from me with such ease.

I am lucky, I think, to have someone like him.

I am luckier still to have _him_ , specifically, the man who restored my faith in the world, in my own place in it, reminded me that there was a point in going on after all.

That he is so easily contented with gentle kisses from his ageing Grand Master—a man he certainly no longer _needs_ —is nothing short of a miracle.

But I have witnessed many miracles by Shay’s side, so it comes as less of a surprise than it might.

Heat and pressure against my belly reminds me that he may not be _entirely_ satisfied with kisses alone.

“Shay,” I murmur, curling my hand over his hip, toying with the fabric of his shirt. I may not be _much_ use to him in this regard just now, but I see no reason he should go entirely without.

“Ignore it,” Shay responds, pulling back to look me in the eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s just—”

“Please don’t apologise,” I interrupt. “I’m flattered.”

Shay’s blush deepens to a pretty crimson that makes his eyes look even darker than usual.

“I don’t want to ask too much,” Shay says softly. “You’ve given me enough already.”

I can’t help laughing at this, though I can see Shay doesn’t see the joke.

“Shay, what have I ever given you?”

“Someone to believe in,” Shay says, so softly I might have missed it if I hadn’t been listening.

I laugh again, and Shay is still not in on the joke, but I see no harm now in telling him.

“Before I came back to the colonies,” I began. “I had rather lost faith in the Order’s mission, though obviously this was a secret I shared only with my own diary. Do you know what renewed my faith?”

Shay shakes his head, letting me tell the story.

I stroke my fingers through his hair, willing him to realise that I am not doing this out of obligation or lack of ability to object. That I would have had him in my bed from the first moment we met and that it will take me some time to recover from the regret I feel over missing the opportunity.

“You did,” I say. “Your perfect blend of the ideals I was born into and the ones I had taken on later. Your certainty about what was right and what was wrong and your willingness to act in defense of the greater good without hesitation. Not to mention a very pretty smile and a wit as dry as my own.”

“Pretty, sir?” Shay asks, features lit up with wonder.

“Sir, am I?” I tease, avoiding the question. He knows how pretty he is and does not need me to remind him.

“Not if you don’t want to be,” Shay says hesitantly.

“People have called me _sir_ my entire life,” I say. “And I have had enough subordinates to satisfy any need to be in charge I may once have felt many times over. I would like an equal, Shay.”

He blinks at me, as though the idea had simply never occurred to him before.

“And you are quite firmly my better in every sense that matters, so I hope you’ll pardon the presumption that I shouldn’t be calling _you_ sir.”

Now the confusion turns to horror, Shay’s perfect nose wrinkling in distaste.

“I thought you’d prefer I didn’t,” I say. “I think that there would be nothing unusual at all in a landowner and a sea captain being extremely close friends.”

“Not unusual at all,” Shay agrees. “Haytham.”

As soon as the word is done rolling off his tongue I am moved to kiss him again, wanting to taste it in his mouth, etch the sound of it into my bones.

I am reminded almost immediately of Shay’s unfulfilled need, the heat of his cock nudging my belly even as he tries to hide it.

“I’m too exhausted to be much use to you,” I murmur, aware that I am fever-warm and sweating more than is appropriate for the situation. “But I would like… that is, if you find yourself inclined to see to it, I’d like to watch.”

Shay’s thick swallow says more than any words could—he _is_ inclined, and he would like that very much.

“All right,” he murmurs, already gathering up his shirt, tucking the long tails under so his pretty cock, neat and curved and glistening at the head is on full display for me.

I cannot help wetting my lips, and I am unsure whether or not I want Shay to have noticed that.

The sight of his long, callused fingers curling around the shaft is perhaps one of the most shockingly erotic of my life, a jolt of lust coursing through my belly as he gasps at his own touch, thumb gathering precome to spread it down the length, easing the way, the motion practiced.

Of course it is practiced—Shay is a sensual creature, pleasure-driven when there’s nothing more pressing for him to attend to. He likely does this often, far more often than I.

He hisses as he rests his forehead against mine. His face is too close to see, but I find it easy to imagine—lips slack with pleasure, eyelids fluttering closed, and as I watch the beautifully-defined muscles of his belly contract another surge of heat rolls through me, my own nether regions beginning to awaken.

I doubt I will achieve the impressive arousal Shay has in my current condition, but the tension is not unpleasant, a glowing ember of arousal deep in the pit of my stomach.

“What do you think of?” I ask, knowing what I want to hear.

I want to hear that he thinks of _me_ , and that he has thought of me since we met, and nothing else has ever been satisfying since then. A cruel wish, perhaps—I do not want Shay to have suffered—but I want _him_ , and I have just learned I’ve had him for quite some time and done nothing about it.

“You,” he says, sending another rush of pleasure washing over me. “I—I think of you,” he stutters, barely above a whisper. “With me,” he adds. “Taking me.”

_Oh_.

“Taking you,” I repeat, caught somewhere between surprise at Shay’s complete lack of shame in saying this, and my own visceral reaction to the thought.

Shay nods, biting his lip.

“I want to feel you,” he says. “Sometimes I imagine it so well I almost can.”

This confession feels so desperately intimate that I find myself unable to breathe for a moment. Shay is _vulnerable_ when he says this, he has no walls at all, and he could be all mine.

I can have him.

I _want_ him.

“You will,” I promise. “As soon as I’m able, you will.”

Shay’s eyes open then, staring directly into mine as a strangled gasp signals his release, a drop or two of fluid wetting my nightshirt and leaving it clinging to my belly.

Without a second thought I reach down to wipe it away with my fingers, sucking them into my mouth as Shay watches, tasting him for the first time and barely stifling an unexpected moan, squirming at the new wave of arousal.

My own cock is half-hard and torn between giving up and begging for attention I’m not sure I have the stamina to give it.

Shay’s eyes are glazed, his hair wild, cheeks prettily flushed.

A stuttering gasp escapes me as Shay’s hand steals between my legs, wonder dawning over his face.

Before I can say anything, Shay begins to shuffle his way down the bed, pulling my nightshirt up and out of the way, exposing me without a second thought.

If it had been _anyone_ else I might have scrambled away, scolded them, _stopped_ them somehow, but I want Shay.

I want everything of Shay, everything he’ll give me.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t show any disgust as he leans in, tongue extended, softly lapping at my half-hard cock, pushing it firmly in the direction of begging for attention.

I should be _more_ than old enough and experienced enough to resist by now, but I find I am not. Not when it comes to Shay.

The warmth of Shay’s mouth makes stars dance in front of my eyes. In better health, I could endure this for longer, but I am weak and exhausted and my body is too eager for the result to pause to take pleasure in the journey.

Shay hums around me as I fight not to thrust into his warm, soft mouth, my fingers tangling in his already untidy hair.

He draws me deep into his throat until his sweet, perfect nose brushes against my belly and he swallows, just once, around me.

I spend myself instantly with a strangled cry, no time to warn him, tears coming to my eyes with the intensity of it.

Shay eases me through it, swallowing rhythmically around me, letting me ride the peak of my orgasm longer than I otherwise would have and thedrawing back to lick me clean.

I do not deserve him, but nothing will take him away from me.

I look down as he finishes up, glancing at me through dark lashes, eyes hooded and sated as he nuzzles my softened cock, pressing a sweet, loving kiss to it before hauling himself back up the mattress.

I cannot resist pulling him in for a kiss, licking my way into his mouth, tasting myself there. Shay hums as he melts against me, body warm and relaxed.

“Shay,” I murmur, since it is the only word my tongue consents to wrap itself around.

“Sleep,” he instructs, pressing a quick kiss to the bridge of my nose. “I’ll clean us up in a minute.”

By which he means he will clean _himself_ up, since I am admirably clean already.

I let his advice take root, closing my eyes and running my fingers through his hair as my body slips eagerly into sleep, perfectly sated.

***

Now that I know I am permitted to kiss Shay, it is difficult to resist the impulse whenever he comes within striking distance.

He takes this sudden ardour in good humour, allowing me everything I want and staying close so I can have more of it. I am still weak, still in recovery, but getting stronger, and Shay continues to nurse me as he has ever done—though bathing is _much_ more satisfying the next time, and I feel spoiled by this sudden glut of affection.

Shay continues to sleep in my bed, and I am too tired and too happy to care what anyone else thinks of this.

I admire the handsome planes and angles of his face always, but never more so than the moment when he wakes in the morning and I am first treated to the sight of those stunning eyes, unfocused for a moment, dark lashes fluttering as he wakes fully, a smile breaking over his face as he sees me staring back at him.

Despite years of seafaring, Shay is not a natural early riser and is more than happy to spend half the morning in bed with me. This habit will be hard to break later, though I am not sure why we should ever break it.

We have more than earned the right to lie in.

“How’re you feeling?” Shay asks, his tongue still thick with sleep, accent heavy and lazy.

Yes. I think I love him the most in the mornings, when he is least guarded. When I see him as so few have.

Shay may have had many lovers, but I doubt more than a few could say they have seen him wake.

“Sore,” I admit, knowing there is little point in lying to Shay. He knows I ache down to my bones, but we both know I _am_ improving. The going is slow, but I can be patient.

For once, in my entire life, I can be patient.

Shay makes a sympathetic noise, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

“I’ve had worse,” I add, unable to help the soft smile spreading over my face, joy at having Shay so close overriding any concerns I may have about dignity.

I am _happy_. Sore and weak, but _happy_ , and happiness has been a rare commodity in my life. I think I have earned the right to enjoy it.

“That’s not comforting,” Shay says. “I don’t like to think of you in pain.”

“Then don’t,” I advise, covering Shay’s hand on my cheek with my own. “Don’t think of it. Think only of pleasure and happiness.”

“I spend a lot of time thinking of pleasure and happiness,” Shay says. “And you. And how much more of it you deserve.”

He shuffles closer to me, touching our noses together.

“Oh yes? And just what pleasures would you bestow on me?”

“Fresh coconuts,” Shay says, which is a surprise. “Baked fish. Hot sand between your toes. Sitting by a bonfire on the beach as the sun sets, passing around stolen bottles.”

“A very specific sort of pleasure,” I say. “Sounds like my father’s stories.”

“I think I would’ve liked him,” Shay says.

“I’m afraid he would have stolen you away from me,” I say.

Shay shakes his head. “No, never. Might’ve had to share, but...” he trails off with a grin and a sparkle in his eyes.

“You are _wicked,_ ” I laugh, humming with barely-contained joy as he surges forward to kiss me.

Shay pulls back when I am out of breath, and mere days ago I would not have wanted him to see me like this, but I can tolerate it now, with Shay stroking my hair while my lungs catch up, body still so easily exhausted.

“You wouldn’t have lost me to him,” Shay says softly. “I’m sure he was a handsome man.”

“I look more like my mother,” I explain. “Her colouring, in any case. And my grandfather’s nose, I’m told. I did inherit my father’s mouth.”

Shay smiles at this, brushing the tips of his fingers over my lower lip. “I do like your mouth,” he says. “And your nose,” he adds, running a finger along it.

“That makes one of us,” I say, making Shay tut and roll his eyes.

“That’s my taste you’re insultin’, so it is,” he says, though he radiates nothing but kindness and warmth.

“Ah, well, I shouldn’t like to do _that_.”

Shay kisses me again, keeping it quick and light this time, and then climbs out of bed and stretches, gloriously naked, muscles rippling under his skin.

I feel no shame in taking the opportunity to look at him, illuminated by the wide windows, glowing like a fallen star in the middle of my bedroom where, I think, he has always belonged.

“Found some of your father’s papers yesterday,” Shay says. “Thought you might be up to looking through them today?”

“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. There was a time when I would have had mixed feelings, but that time has passed. I have come face-to-face with my own mortality and I refuse to accumulate any more regrets.

Shay, unfortunately, chooses to put on a shirt, breeches, and a banyan of his own, though mercifully he leaves his shirt untucked, and does nothing to tidy his hair.

The overall effect leaves the atmosphere intact, the intimacy and vulnerability and coziness.

He swoops over to the bed a moment later, indulging me in another kiss.

I will never have had enough of him.

“I’ll get them,” he says. “And breakfast.”

My stomach growls in agreement, the effort of healing requiring rather more food and rest than I am accustomed to needing.

I am lucky, I suppose, that both things are currently intensely pleasurable.

***

Shay was right about the pleasure of warm sand between one’s toes, and as we walk together along a secluded cove, the furthest I’ve gone under my own power since I woke in his cabin, I am once again happy.

My recovery still seems interminably slow, but this is a significant milestone, and even as I am obliged to sit on a nearby rock, Shay helping me down and settling next to me, I feel better than I have done in weeks.

Shay has been nothing but patient, showering me with affection and as much pleasure in all things as my health and energy levels allow. We have shared innumerable kisses and long, deep talks, and even _I_ could not convince myself that he has grown tired of my company.

I have lost count of the number of times he has spoken my name.

“It really is beautiful here,” I sigh, resting my head against Shay’s shoulder, knowing he will not think less of me for it.

“No complaints about the view,” Shay agrees, but rather than looking out at the ocean or along the beach toward the approaching sunset, he is looking at _me_.

I love him. Sometimes the feeling seems too large to contain, as though it might break free of me any moment.

Instead, it simply expands to press on my heart, painful in its intensity, and does not abate until I reach out to him, curl my fingers around his.

Perhaps I have become a ridiculous old man—perhaps we both have—but there is nothing in the world I want more than to kiss Shay, always, as often as I am able for as long as we live.

Thankfully, Shay seems to feel the same way. Once upon a time, I had imagined he might leave when I was recovered.

Now I am sure he will not. Not without me, in any case.

“You seem better,” Shay murmurs against my lips as the kiss breaks.

I am perhaps a little out of breath, but I _feel_ better.

“I am,” I say. “You are a panacea.”

Shay snorts, letting our heads rest together.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he murmurs.

“I would,” I say. “I would be quite dead without you. Your healing powers are nothing short of miraculous.”

“Well-timed and determined,” Shay corrects.

“You make your own luck,” I murmur, remembering the words coming from Shay more than once.

“Aye,” Shay agrees. “Goin’ all right so far.”

“It’s certainly gone all right for me,” I say, letting myself lean against Shay again, pressing my face to the crook of his neck. “Though I think you may have stretched the limits of your supply rescuing me.”

Shay shakes his head, then turns to kiss my temple.

“Doesn’t matter if I have,” he says. “I don’t need luck anymore. I’ve got you.”

He says this easily, but I am not sure he understands how entirely, indelibly true it is.

“Irrevocably,” I promise.

***

The long walk earlier was enough to exhaust me beyond the limits of endurance, but Shay wastes no time settling me comfortably in bed, supplying me with tea and books and company I am certain I will never tire of.

I cannot think how I coped without him for so long, since having him back feels such a natural part of my life that I find it hard to imagine him anywhere but by my side.

“This was a Templar stronghold before it was an Assassin one,” I say, passing some of my father’s papers to him.

My habit of keeping a diary, it seems, was inherited from him.

“I know,” Shay says. “Thought you might know how to dig up all the secrets better than me. Since you’re a _real_ Templar.”

I snort at the thought. “No more real than you,” I say, though I know what he means—I was raised for this, Shay is involved simply because we could help him achieve his goals.

And, I now understand, out of loyalty to me. Out of _love_ for me.

I am incredibly glad he has never been seriously injured in the Order’s service, or I would never have recovered from the guilt.

“You look the part,” Shay says. But then _he_ looks the part now, too.

Shay never developed my taste for gold embroidery, but there is money in every seam of his clothing—in the cloth, the cut, the fit, the choice of finishes, the care and maintenance.

“Ah,” I say. “Old and rich?”

Shay grins at me.

We have known each other nearly half my life, and he makes me feel half my age. My _real_ age, therefore, can no longer touch me. The two of us are forever the beautiful young men we once were in my heart, though I do sincerely think Shay is even more beautiful now than he was all those years ago.

“You too will go grey, Captain Cormac,” I tease, turning my eyes back to the papers before me, but unable to hide my smile.

“Well,” Shay says, settling comfortably against me. “If it looks half as good on me as it does on you, I can’t wait.”

***

The sound of the lapping waves and the roaring bonfire, coupled with the laughter of Shay’s crew, the quiet strains of a fiddle and a flute, and the steady thud of Shay’s heart make for quite the most pleasant symphony I have ever had the pleasure of attending.

As promised, fresh coconuts are also an unforeseen delight, sweet and refreshing. I want to taste it in Shay’s mouth, and we are not the only couple on this beach--nor the strangest--but for now I am content to lie against his chest on the sand, a blanket thrown over me to support the flimsy fiction that I need both the warmth and the support.

I realise by the time the sun sets that there really isn’t any need to hide. Not here.

Shay rises after a while, and then comes back and sets a banana leaf-wrapped package in my lap before settling behind me again.

When he unwraps it with his hands around my middle, I realise it is the baked fish I was promised more than a week ago.

Shay breaks it apart with his clever fingers, offering the first morsel directly to my lips.

The fish tastes of the fire, smoky and warm and rich, falling apart to the point of practically melting on my tongue, fresher than I've ever tasted.

The simple pleasures of Shay’s life, I am discovering, could easily become the simple pleasures of mine.

There is a purity to this, the cleansing quality of the fire and water, the grounding warmth of the sand beneath us.

“You’re enjoying this,” Shay says, delight in his voice.

“Very much,” I agree between mouthfuls of fish. Shay is excessively careful about avoiding the fine bones, picking my portions clean of them before allowing me to eat.

I suppose I have frightened him recently enough that he is unwilling to take chances with me.

“Knew you would,” Shay says. “It’s no grand dinner at a New York mansion, but...”

“But it is an experience I would otherwise never have had,” I say. “And I am grateful.”

“Grateful enough for a cuddle when we get back?”

_A cuddle,_ in Shay’s vocabulary, is rather more vigorous an activity than most people would assume it to be.

I have grown very fond of Shay’s _cuddles_.

“I want to make love to you,” I murmur, turning my face to kiss his neck, shielded from view by the light of the fire and the darkness of the evening.

Shay’s throat moves as he swallows, wildly tempting. He is so beautiful I could weep, every inch a testament to perfection.

“There’s no rush,” he says.

“No.” I take his hand, curling my own around it. “No, none at all. I had quite planned to take my time. If you’ll have me.”

Shay is silent for a moment, his hand slack in my grip, but then he squeezes back, and all is well.

“Thought _you_ were offering to have _me_ ,” he murmurs, pressing a subtle kiss into my hair.

I laugh, deep and sincere, the sound filling my belly with the simple joy I have come to associate with this place as the men strike up a tune.

_Come all you young sailor men listen to me..._

***

Shay is a delight in this as in all things, gasping, moaning and writhing eagerly, bursting into charming giggles at just the right moment, sighing and giving of himself endlessly.

It is no wonder he has never wanted for willing partners if he makes them all feel as though they are masters of their craft. I am the first to admit that this is one area in which I do not have quite the practical expertise I might like, but with Shay I feel competent and more than satisfactory, and that is a greater pleasure than any physical touch ever could be.

Not that Shay is in any way shy about touching me. He runs his hands over me as though I were fine silk, taking obvious pleasure in simply making contact.

I have been unforgivably stupid in not allowing myself this before now, but I will not make the mistake again.

Shay arches against me as I enter him and makes the sweetest sound I have ever heard, clinging to me tightly while he adjusts.

“Are you all right?” I ask, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, kissing the tip of his nose. Anything to soothe him, anything to make this everything he’s hoped for all this time.

Shay nods, tears shining in his eyes, and for a heart-stopping moment I worry I’ve hurt him. He sweeps the worry away by pulling me in for a kiss, more teeth than lips, desperate and with barely-contained violence to it, his need for me suddenly overwhelming both of us.

“I’ve wanted this so long,” he murmurs against my lips once he calms down, mouthing gently at me now, body beginning to move, encouraging me to do the same.

Shay feels of _home_ in a way I’d forgotten anything could. Not mere familiarity, but a sense of belonging, of being exactly where I should be washes over me as we rock together, exchanging soft kisses that leave us both breathless.

Shay slows me down with a hand on my arm, mindful that I am still not back to full strength. I am happy to spend whatever of it I have to do this for him, to give him whatever he wants of me—he has, after all, given me far more than I deserve, and I owe whatever remains of my life to him.

If all he asks is to spend it in shared pleasure, I will not refuse him.

“Don’t wear yourself out,” he murmurs. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”

“You are,” I gasp. “A _shameless_ flatterer.”

He laughs, and the sound is so beautiful I never want to hear anything else again.

I slow down a little further, mindful that I could easily frustrate him but willing to run the risk in order to draw this out, savour it, give Shay the one thing he’s asked for as thoroughly as I possibly can.

“ _You_ ,” I manage, out of breath. “Are perfect just the way _you_ are.”

He laughs again, and I could live in the sound, I could swallow it down and keep it in my chest forever, knowing that I had caused him to make it.

Shay threads his fingers into my hair, pulling me close, pressing our foreheads together. My nose rather gets in the way of this charmingly intimate gesture, but this only makes Shay laugh again, and kiss the tip of it, then bite down on my lip as he finishes, arching gloriously toward me, spending on my belly.

I like nothing more than making Shay come, I have discovered. It is the single greatest pleasure of my life, the way he gives himself over to it so wholly, trusts me to be kind to him in this moment of utmost vulnerability, and I cannot resist kissing the last of his pleasure out of his mouth as I let go, strength failing me as my own orgasm rushes through me and the world fades to black for a moment, everything but Shay’s body utterly irrelevant.

As I come back to my senses I realise I am lying on top of him and that I am _much_ too heavy for this to be comfortable, but all I can bring myself to do is shuffle halfway off, giving him room to breathe.

Shay makes absolutely no complaint about being partially crushed—instead, he wraps an arm around me and holds me close to his body, our skin sticking together as our sweat cools.

I am just beginning to drift off when Shay begins, soft and low, to sing.

_Windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys, when the wind blows, we’re all together boys._


End file.
